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The single “nugget” of wisdom that you’ve been leaving outside of your litter box and smack dab in the middle of the living room for the past month is, I know, not an accident. Nor is your ability to spring out of nowhere on your hind legs with both paws in the air, throwing yourself at my legs and silently chuckling to yourself while I trip. If you did that fifty years down the line, I’d be a poster child for the Life Alert necklace. I know that your litter box hasn’t been cleaned as often, your food bowl is sometimes either very low or overflowing with food out of laziness and I haven’t thrown your favorite white mouse toy in a while.

The truth is, dear cat, the very tall man who you are convinced is your arch nemesis is, in fact, the number one man in my life now. Your blanket that you weirdly suck on and paw at has been removed from its spot next to me on the bed and now sits in a corner, and I can hear you snoring and purring at the loudest volume possible to get attention when he’s around. I’m no idiot – I understand that you’re mad. But it’s not you, little fluffball, it’s me(ow). This is exactly what I get for calling myself a cat lady for life and being proud of it… this is what I get for overdosing on feminazi Reddit threads and watching Kill Bill too many times and forgetting that at the core of each us, whether we like it or not, there is a terrifying beauty to being vulnerable and in love. Most of the time, it stings more than your cat scratches do, and it certainly leaves a longer mark, but it’s something I’m sick of avoiding.

Thank you for being the first member of the opposite sex that I have truly loved with all of my heart. I will never stop kissing your bubblegum pink nose, and you’re still free to watch while I take showers. I hope you can forgive me for bringing another person into my life. If you get upset about it, please maintain a permanent frown on your face so that you can be the next Grumpy Cat and we can be famous on the interwebz.